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St
George, Sprowston, Norwich

Sprowston
forms the larger part of the north-east of the
city of Norwich. It stretches pretty much from
the inner-ring road until it melts into the
fields three miles out on the edge of the city.
If it was a town in its own right, Sprowston
would be the fourth largest place in Norfolk. The
churchwarden of one of Sprowston's Anglican
churches tells me that people prefer to think of
it as suburban Broadland rather than suburban
Norwich, which I thought was rather nice, and
showed a certain amount of pride in what is far
from an anonymous suburb.

Norwich, of
course, is home to East Anglia's Catholic
cathedral, and, as is the way with Catholic
cathedrals, the cathedral is also a parish church
in its own right. The only other Catholic parish
in the city is this one. As befits its status, St
George is a grand, architecturally articulate
church of 1962, in a prominent position
dominating the ridge of the hill. The designer
was AJ Chaplin, and it is ironic that the great
post-war expansion of the Catholic Church in East
Anglia happened on the eve of the changes that
would be wrought in the shape of the liturgy by
Vatican II, and which would lead, later in the
decade, to changes in the way in which churches
were ordered and arranged. Because of this, St
George is conventional in design, a hall church
with the altar at the east.

However,
the setting of the church, with a plaza at the west end
and an open arcade leading on to it, is reminiscent of
the way in which Catholic churches in southern Europe are
set organically on town squares, becoming a part of them,
and allowing the Faithful to congregate before Masses in
a place which is at once a part of the Church and a part
of the City. There's something very Catholic about this.
A small garden courtyard beside the church separates it
from the large presbytery, and beyond that is the car
park.

I have
extremely fond memories of this church. Back in the
mid-1990s, the Parish Priest here was also the East
Anglian diocesan priest for the deaf, and he regularly
held Masses in Sign Language here. At the time, we
fostered a deaf girl, and so we would pile up the A140
with her and our own children, who were then both under
five, and come to Mass here. It was always the most
joyful and deeply spiritual of occasions. It deepened my
own Faith, and was certainly one of the experiences which
would lead my wife into joining the Church herself.
Today, she translates the readings at Mass into Sign
Language at our own church. In those days, I remember, we
were always welcomed with open arms by the community, as
were all outsiders coming in for the Deaf Mass, and the
busy presbytery kept open house. I remember sitting in
the back garden on a summer afternoon chatting with
Bishop Peter Smith, who would later be promoted to the
Archbishopric of Cardiff, while my children mixed in with
other children, running and tumbling on the presbytery
lawn. On other visits to Norwich, I would often make the
twenty minute walk from the ring road up to St George,
just to sit inside its cool, silent, beautiful peace. It
was a difficult church to be alone in - you always felt
that you were at the heart of a busy, living, breathing
community.

I had not
been back to St George for about eight years. The
friendly Parish Priest I'd known had since moved on to
pastures new, and our deaf girl grew up and moved away. I
was more often in Norwich these days than I had been
then, but I rarely made it out to the Sprowston Road.
Indeed, a film of nostalgia had formed across my memories
of St George, as so often happens with the recent past,
and thoughts of our children when they were young. Now, I
felt a mounting sense of excitement as I cycled up Silver
Road and then turned onto the busy Sprowston Road, St
George's great west front lifting into view above the
mundane shop fronts. It is a big church, bigger than any
in Ipswich, a town with a larger Catholic community than
Norwich. It is at once both suburban, and the obvious
architectural heart of its setting. I don't mind
admitting that I felt a little frisson as I
picked up my bike and carried it up the steps onto the
plaza. Curiously, there was nobody else about, and no
other bikes in the bike racks. I left my bike, and then
walked under the open arcade to the great west doors.

Locked.
For a moment, I couldn't quite believe it. I had never
found St George locked before. I rattled both doors, but
I could feel the lock tightening as I pulled the handle
towards me. Obviously, there had been a change of policy
here - or had someone simply forgotten to open it? But it
was eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning - surely a Mass
must have just ended? Then I wondered if, these days,
people were expected to use the doorway which leads into
the south transept. I walked around the corner into the
courtyard and tried the handle, but it was as locked as
the west doors.

I was so
surprised, I wasn't sure exactly what to do. I had
planned that day to visit the churches of north Norwich,
of Sprowston and Heigham, of New and Old Catton. I had
counted on this one, at least, being open. Should I head
off, and come back again later? I looked around the
corner to the front of the presbytery, and saw that there
was a car parked there. The obvious thing to do was to go
and call at the presbytery. I did not know who the Parish
Priest at St George was these days, but I was sure he'd
be helpful. I went and rang the bell and waited. Nothing.
I pressed it again just to be sure, but I could not hear
any ringing noise inside. I stood waiting, and I looked
up, and noticed how delapidated the presbytery looked
nowadays, unlike in the sunny days of my memory. I
waited. Nobody came. All I could hear were the birds in
the tall trees to the east, and the traffic on the
Sprowston Road.

I would
have to come back to St George later. I wandered around
the church again taking photographs of the outside, but
as I stood in the car park taking the photograph you see
at the top of this page, I saw out of the corner of my
eye - I swear to you - a movement in the big central
window of the presbytery, a figure walking across out of
the room. It struck me then that the bell, obviously, had
not been working. My heart gladdened as I walked briskly
back across to the presbytery, and this time I walked
down to the other door and rang the bell there, and
walked back up to the main door. As I did so, a very
large man walked into kitchen and glared at me.

I could
tell as soon as he opened the door that he was not happy
with me. It wasn't just the look on his face, but the way
he said crossly "What do you want?". I
explained my mission, who I was, mentioned that I was a
Catholic, and told him that I'd like to see inside the
church; but, unaccountably, it was locked. He stared at
me for a moment, and then said "And I'd like to know
why you are skulking around outside my house". Well,
he had a point, so I explained the problem with the bells
- or, at least, what I had perceived as the problem with
the bells. He then said something extraordinary, in a
thunderous voice. "If someone rings on my bell and I
don't choose to answer it, then it is for a good
reason!"

Obviously,
I apologised, and again explained the nature of my
mission. Well, without going into too much detail, all I
can say is that he was extremely rude to me -
outstandingly so. I have never in my life before
experienced such unpleasantness and hostility from a
minister of religion. His main complaint appeared to be
that I had rung on his doorbell while he was in the
toilet, which was candid of him to say the least. Yes,
the church was locked, and it would stay locked. No, I
couldn't go inside. No, it wouldn't be open today. No, I
couldn't go inside even if I came back later. If I went
away and made an appointment, then he would consider it,
but not today. He was extremely busy. Saturday was an
extremely busy day for him. He was also infirm, and he
couldn't be expected to be at everyone's beck and call.
The fact that I had come all the way from Ipswich was not
his problem.

This
haranguing was so intense it was difficult for me to get
a word in edgeways. Although I was sorry that I had
disturbed him, I didn't think I deserved this attack, and
so I decided to go. I managed to apologise once more, and
he replied, rather oddly in the light of what he'd just
told me, that he too was going now because he was halfway
through a phone call. And the door was shut firmly in my
face. Rather shaken, I made my way back to my bike, my
knees a little weak as I cycled off in the direction of
St Cuthbert.

It was
only thinking about it afterwards that it struck me as
extraordinary. Here was a major urban Catholic church in
a significant English provincial city. At this time on a
Saturday morning it should have been full of life. What
had happened here? I couldn't marry up my own memories of
St George a decade before with what I found here now.
Liturgically, a Catholic church should be open.
This isn't always possible, but it should at least be
accessible. It should be considered desirable for any
passing Catholic to enter into the presence of the
Blessed Sacrament to pray. In years and years of visiting
hundreds and hundreds of churches, I have never
been refused entry to a Catholic church before. Thinking
about it, it made me quite cross. Anyone, of any faith or
none, should be able to call at a Catholic church and
expect warmth, friendship, support and encouragement. I
thought that this man's behaviour had been outrageous.

It was
only when leafing through the Diocesan handbook the
following day that I was struck by something else rather
extraordinary. I hope that you will forgive me here for a
little number-crunching - I don't normally go in for
counting bums-on-seats at the churches I visit. But East
Anglia is a tremendous growth area for the Catholic
Church. Congregations are burgeoning, the pews are filled
with young families, the communities are regularly
augmented by migrant workers and those leaving other
denominations to find a new spiritual home. But glancing
down the census statistics for 2007, the most recent year
for which they are available, there seemed to be
something wrong. I got out the statistics for 2003, the
most recent other year I had to hand. My suspicion was
correct. While most East Anglican Catholic churches had
increased their congregations considerably over the four
year period, the average Sunday Mass attendances at St
George had actually gone down in that time, from
765 to 602 - that is to say, one out of every five people
who had been attending this church in 2003 had gone
somewhere else by 2007.

To
compare, I looked at an equivalent church in some other
towns, which is to say a big suburban church which
complements the main central church, as St George does
the cathedral in Norwich. So, for example, the church of
St Mary in the eastern suburbs of Ipswich had gone from
594 Sunday worshippers in 2003 to 758 of them in 2007. In
Cambridge, St Lawrence had gone from 654 to 728, and St
Philip Howard from 566 to 691. None of these are the main
central Catholic church in their town.

The
Diocesan handbook also lists the resident Catholic
population of these parishes. In 2007, Ipswich St Mary
drew its crowd of 758 from a local population of an
estimated 2700 Catholics, but the Catholic population of
St George's parish in 2007 is given as 5500, more than
twice as many! It all seemed very odd, and you will, I
hope, forgive me in the light of my experience here for
wondering if there was some kind of connection between St
George's falling attendances and the way in which I had
been treated as a visitor; and, if so, which one was a
symptom of the other. I'm sure that someone will write
and tell me.

My heart wasn't heavy for long. I
spent the rest of the day visiting churches across north
Norwich, meeting some lovely people, and found myself
most welcome in many places. But I still kept thinking
about St George, and how I was going to write about it. I
finished the day in my favourite Norwich church of all,
the Catholic Cathedral of St John the Baptist on Earlham
Road. This vast space always moves me. I sat for a while,
and wandered around the transepts, and then popped into
the shop. I suppose that there were only about half a
dozen other people in the Cathedral, and the nice man who
works in the shop observed that it was "a bit quiet
this afternoon". I agreed, and we got to chatting
about the way in which the Cathedral was increasingly a
part of the mainstream of Norwich life, and how people
are far more likely to pop in for a look than they were,
say, ten years ago. We talked about other Norwich
churches we liked. I didn't mention my unpleasant
experience at St George earlier in the day; but nor, I
realised afterwards, did I mention St George as one of my
favourite Norwich churches, as I certainly would have
done the previous day.

The Catholic Cathedral is open
every day from seven in the morning, but of course there
are special days when the open building is advertised,
and visitors can go on guided tours. The man in the shop
told me how he had been one of the welcomers to the
Cathedral on September's Heritage Open Weekends.

"You wouldn't believe
it", he told me, "but some people come
up those steps and they say 'we're not Catholics,
can we still come in?' - Well, I have to smile.
Of course you can, I say, this is God's House,
all are welcome, everyone is welcome here! And
when they leave, some of them come up to me and
they say 'you know, we hadn't known it was going
to be so wonderful. We just didn't know what it
was going to be like.' because some people still
have some funny ideas about Catholics, and
there's still a stigma. But some of them come
back, some of them come back for a look around on
their own, and you just know that some
of them are going to be open to the presence of
God, don't you?"

I
was silent for a moment, because I knew he'd just
written the end of this article for me. We agreed
that an open church was the greatest single act
of witness that the Church has today. And then I
headed home.